


Whiskers on Kittens

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Transformation, Cat!Bucky, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, that's happening, yep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:13:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: When Steve brought up the idea of getting a cat for the apartment, he didn't mean Bucky should sprout a tail and grow a coat of fur. Yet, that's exactly what happens on what was supposed to be an easy mission. Insert misunderstandings, conveniently missing characters, and hand-wavy magic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists in a magical version of the MCU where Vision doesn't exist, CA:CW didn't happen, and all the Avengers live in the tower like one big slightly dysfunctional family of superheroes. Whiskers on a particular kitten are some of Steve's favourite things. 
> 
> This is my first time writing for Captain America. All mistakes are all my own fault.
> 
> Alternative titles:
> 
> You've Cat to be Kitten Me  
> James "Bode" Barnes: Glamourpuss of the Tower  
> Bucky and Steve's Cat-astrophe

It’s his question of, “Does anyone have ears on Bucky?” that alerts him to The Problem in the first place.

But before that, it all starts with a scouting operation handed down by Fury. The mission sends them to a data farm and biotech research center in Nowheresville, Delaware. From the outside, the building juts out from the soil like a piece of alien tech that had fallen off their ship, hurtled towards Earth, and wedged itself into the ground so firmly the aliens left it as a lost cause. It’s as incongruous to the landscape as Steve, Bucky, Sam, Natasha, and Tony feel standing amongst the sprawling, green fields of soy crops that stretch out to every edge of the horizon.

Their task is reconnaissance, no hostiles expected. The building stands empty, something having spooked the Bio Research Corporation that owns the building enough that they left it abandoned for the past two months. Fury, suspecting the BRC is a front for nefarious gene editing, wants them to collect as much information as possible. 

Inside, they separate to search and clear each floor on their own. According to the blueprints, the top two storeys are run-of-the-mill office spaces. Below those floors are the biotechnology labs, where the official BRC press release claims scientists research the soybean’s role in human papillomavirus vaccinations.

Beneath it all is the basement. It stretches well beyond the limits of the walls above ground, and its sprawling square footage makes up the foundation of BRC’s data farm. It’s where Steve is now, searching for Bucky after he fails to make his check in.

If he was anyone else, he would probably miss the way a tinny version of his voice harmonizes with him as soon as he asks it. Even still, he barely hears it over the electrical hum of the server farm.

Standing at the entrance of the data centre, Steve surveys the massive room. There are rows of tall server cabinets filling the room, split down the centre by a long hallway. The room is immaculate, smelling only of warm electronics. A number of tiny fans whir in a steady rhythm. They join a generic industrial whine Steve has come to associate with the 21st century.

“Huh,” he says and his twin says ‘huh’ again deep within the data centre. Okay. That’s — unusual.

“Guys bear with me for a sec,” He warns, stepping into the room.

“Testing, testing,” He calls quietly as he walks down the aisle slowly.

“Testing, testing,” he hears repeated, clearer now that he’s passed a few rows.

He’s sweeping his head back and forth — Tony interjecting with, “Check 1,2,3 check. You know, we already have a Rhodey on the team, Cap,” before Natasha actually shushes him — “What? It’s not my fault he chooses _not_ to mute his comms.” — when he finds it.

Halfway down a row, there’s a heap of black clothing piled in front of a stack of blade servers. Steve recognizes them immediately. The material is a jumble of aramid fibers, carbon fibers, and neoprene. It helps that Bucky’s three knives and single Sig MPX rest on top of the rumpled fabric.

“Hi there,” the Stark earpiece nestled in Bucky’s shirt greets him like a digital parrot.

Steve looks around, searching the row for some sign of his partner but finds nothing but gleaming tile floors and empty space beyond the black server cabinets. There's not even a dust bunny in sight.

Directly above where the clothes sit, a few cords hang listlessly from their plugs, a phosphorescent corona shimmering along the coated wires. Steve doesn’t know much about computers at this level, but a quick scan of the neighbouring banks show this breaks the pattern. It’s the only ones putting on a light display.

He takes a few slow steps towards the pile of clothes until he stands before the dangling wires. He pokes at one cautiously, yanking his hand back immediately when it sparks angrily at his touch. Okay. Yeah. That was dumb. He sucks his finger and assesses the situation.

It could be a coincidence, or it could be that Bucky had pulled these plugs out and then. And then. And that’s where Steve stops.

And then what, exactly, isn’t within his ability to guess right now.

He can rule some things out. Like how it’s unlikely there’s a magnet strong enough to suck Bucky straight out of his clothes arm-first, shucking him like an ear of corn and depositing him somewhere bare-naked while leaving the husk of his Kevlar behind. But, Steve supposes, stranger things have happened in their shared experiences, so he can't assume anything.

“Bucky?” His voice echoes, bouncing off the massive walls of servers. He’s alone, not counting his team positioned throughout the facility.

“Barnes, just answer the man,” Sam gripes over the open comm.

Steve shakes his head and squats by the pile of clothes. He’s about to pick it up in one armful when the fabric shifts. Steve rests on the balls of his feet and waits. When it shifts again, he stands, pulling his shield out from its clasp on his back in one smooth movement.

Concentrated on the rippling clothes, he doesn’t look away when he hears footsteps entering the data centre.

“Cap?”

“Hey, Sam,” Steve calls, distracted. He slowly reaches for the bundle of clothes with his left hand while he tightens his grip on his shield with his right. The clothes wiggle enough to send the weapons scattering, the earpiece tumbling to the floor with a plastic clink.

“Can I ask what’s with the audio level checks?” Sam stops at the end of the row, frowning when he finds Steve standing over of a heap of clothes. It’s not like he was expecting an artefact, alien, or Hydra defector, but any one of these things would be less surprising than an underwhelming pile of fabric.

Steve shoves his free hand backwards with his palm facing out while taking another step towards the moving pile of fabric, willing Sam to stay where he is. Sam, knowing what’s good for Steve, takes a step closer to provide better coverage and unholsters his gun.

Bucky’s clothes quiver as whatever is stuck inside it flutters. It's moving down the leg of Bucky’s pant leg, falumping its way furiously towards the opening like a large worm in a sock.

Steve braces himself. Sam lifts his arm and trains his gun on the clothes.

One tiny paw juts forward before a small furry head pokes out and shakes in a move so ferocious Steve can hear its gums flapping. Dark brown ears bracket a soft dusty-cream head, and the downy fur continues along a neck that connects to a set of narrow shoulders. The left side is silver.

Still with its lower body stuck inside the leg, the cat turns to look at Steve and reveals two piercing grey-blue eyes. A swathe of dark hair surrounds them as if the cat is wearing a bandit mask.

Steve gasps. He knows those eyes.

“Steve?” He hears Sam call.

Steve can’t do anything but stare dumbly, dropping his shield to his side. The cat stares back with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Bucky?”

The cat howls.

~*~

After a punchdrunk egress and flight back to Avengers Tower, Steve stands in the conference room. The others stare up at him from their seats around the table. They’re watching the cat sitting on top of his head. Steve looks unperturbed by the fact he’s wearing what’s effectively a live feline coonskin hat complete with a long, fluffy tail trailing down his neck. It’s warm and surprisingly enjoyable.

Bucky sits sure in his rightful place on Steve’s head, haunches firmly nestled in his hair and making a mess of it. Bucky stares back at them.

Steve blinks and purses his lips expectantly, waiting for someone else to start talking. When no one does, he brings his hands to rest on his belt, hoping the pose will strike some confidence into his team.

It doesn’t. Everyone continues to sit quietly. Bucky breaks the silence by yawning widely with a high-pitched squeak, revealing a set of alarmingly sharp teeth in a pink mouth. He arches his back with all four paws touching at the centre of Steve’s head. Big tufts of hair sprout like sunburnt grass between them. Steve winces as some strands get caught in the joints of his metal paw.

Bucky’s tail unfurls from Steve’s neck and vibrates high towards the ceiling as he gives an audible stretch. With a satisfied smack of his whiskered lips, he slips off Steve’s forehead and slides down his chest. Steve catches him in two hands, where Bucky somersaults onto his back. Bucky’s forepaws are slick along his torso, and his back legs stick out like two pointy twigs that wouldn’t look out of place taking a turn on an Olympic luge track. His body is a chubby tube that reveals an adorably fuzzy belly. Everyone in the room takes a moment to marvel at the hint of pink skin under the white fluff.

“Okay, that,” Tony says with a point of his finger as if anyone missed it, “was cute.”

“Adorable,” Steve agrees, slightly in awe.

Sneaking a look down, Steve realizes Bucky is staring back. He blinks two big eyes twice before they squint slowly roll up into the back of his head. He’s asleep in an instant. Steve’s chest lights up with something helpless as he wills his fingers still so as not to disrupt the resting cat. From somewhere nestled deep in his monkey brain, there's an urge to put one of the tiny paws in his mouth, but Steve squashes it before the thought fully develops. Instead, he looks out to his teammates helplessly, eyes suspiciously bright. He holds Bucky away from his body in a two-handed grip as though he's a baby about to be baptized.

Bruce is the one who finally breaks the silence.

“Alright, explain to me what happened. Again,” Bruce’s hair matches his exasperated tone. It’s mussed in a way that suggests he rolled out of an aggressively peaceful down dog rather than the labs. The Hulk wasn’t deemed an appropriate team mate for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, so Bruce spent the afternoon flowing through sun salutations with forceful serenity.

“Well, for one thing, Cap decided to use the power of echolocation to find another comm,” Tony says with a pointed look, “Did we cover that yet? Because I think we should focus on that.”

“Tony,” Steve starts with a sigh. He quiets when Bucky wriggles his left ear against his hand; it’s warm and possibly the softest thing Steve has ever felt in his entire life.

“I meant the more obvious, cat-shaped thing,” Bruce says, pointing to Bucky, “that you’ve all decided is Barnes.”

“Alright, apparently no one else cares that our captain fails to use the massively innovative and expensive Stark tech at his disposal. It's a wonder why I outfit this ungrateful group,” Tony rises out of his seat and walks to the other side of the room, hands in his pockets, “Near as we can tell, the Winter Soldier we’ve all grown to love _despite_ the fact he returns the juice in the fridge when it’s empty—”

“Yeah, my organic, cold-pressed $18 dollar a mason jar açai juice,” Sam finally chirps up from his spot at the table in the time it takes Tony to inhale. His crosses his arms. He caught Bucky sipping from his juice once, and he'll never forget. It was clearly labelled with SAM’S in permanent marker.

Beside him, Natasha quirks her lips, internally pleased. The Winter Soldier was once the boogeyman of the intelligence community, but now he’s James B. Barnes. He's the type of man who doesn’t think to wait until the kitchen is empty before he pilfers food that isn’t his from the fridge; he stands in the spotlight made from the fridge’s lightbulb and takes gigantic, unhurried bites of someone else’s stuff while they watch. Each time, he’s surprised people don’t appreciate sharing, and each time, he makes crumb-filled apologies and promises not to do it again. He’s the perfect scapegoat for her own, far more clandestine açai juice thieving.

“Sam, you know everything in that fridge is fair game,” Steve pipes up, never one to let Bucky go undefended.

“Oh, so that’s how you wanna play this? Because I guess that means that spicy basil tofu you’re saving for lunch is up for grabs. I’m getting hungry.”

“Try it, and I will—”

“Can we focus?” Bruce pleads without rising his voice, “We can always make rules for the fridge later. Tony, you were saying?”

“Right! Thank you, Bruce,” Tony smiles, “As I _was_ saying so eloquently, long story short, Bucky pulled a magically booby-trapped cord and is now a cat the size of Steve’s palm.”

“And why do you figure that?” Bruce looks like he wishes he had a pair of glasses that he could polish. He leaves his seat to stare down at Bucky instead. There’s no arguing it; he makes a remarkably cute kitten. There’s an echo deep inside him that sounds a lot like “Hulk cuddle!”, and it manifests in Bruce stroking his index finger along Bucky’s forehead. Bucky makes a soft “brrp” sound without opening his eyes.

The Avengers lift theirs eyes from Bucky to stare at Bruce for a moment. Then their eyes collectively dip down to the shiny silver arm gleaming under the fluorescent lights before staring back at Bruce again. Bruce notices there’s a tiny red star framed by cat hair on the upper portion of the arm.

“Ah, right. Okay, so,” Bruce stuffs his hand in his pocket so it’s away from the undoubtedly soft cat who is actually his teammate. Because boundaries are healthy. He blinks, “This is a problem.”

“A distinctly cat-shaped problem. We have a one-armed bandit and there was something weird about those cords and those blade servers,” Tony says, “and when I say weird, I don’t mean weird in that they’re still using blade servers.”

“Alright,” Bruce says, having finally accepted his fate as a participant in all this, however unwilling, “Why would tampering with these servers result in these changes?”

“Now that’s the million-dollar question, and we can’t call a friend.”

“Like I said, I just found him like this.” Steve shrugs because he can’t do anything else. He’s careful not to jostle his sleeping passenger despite the impotent rage surging through his veins as he realizes this: the latest injustice served to his partner and no one can figure out how or why it happened.

“Bruce!” Tony says as he clasps Bruce’s shoulder, “Let’s go take apart some tech.”

~*~

Steve escapes the conference room carrying the still sleeping Bucky. He carries his load as carefully as he would transport a large bowl filled to the brim with tomato-based soup across a white carpet. He leads with the tips of his toes and steps lightly onto his heels as an attempt to alter his usual gait into a smooth glide, stopping often to check he hasn’t disturbed as single whisker.

He moves slowly, but eventually, he gets to their apartment. Bucky only wakes when Steve jostles him from both hands to one, so he can open the door. As soon as he’s awake, Bucky’s a squirming mass of fur that’s a confusing combination of solid, sharp bones and liquid threatening to seep through Steve’s fingers.

“Jesus, Buck! Alright, alright. Just—let, me—” He barely reaches the kitchen counter before Bucky springs off his hand and starts sniffing the granite. His metal paw makes a subtle clink with every step like the tines of a fork against a porcelain plate. Bucky moves effortlessly with a swagger reminiscent of his normal self, seemingly unbothered by the addition of a tail and two extra legs.

While Bucky explores the counter with his nose, Steve stands in the middle of the kitchen, watching. He’s aware he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, doing nothing productive. But he’s not sure what he should be doing. It’s not like he can Google ways to fix his friend who mysteriously turned into a cat.

Unless, maybe he can. Contrary to what Stark thinks of his technological abilities, Steve is familiar with Google. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s reintegration program was very thorough when it came to what he shouldn't type into the search engine.

He digs his tongue into the corner of his mouth when he grabs his StarkPad. He types “Friend turn into cat help” into the search bar. The results suggest the top tips on how to befriend your cat. But he’s already friends with a cat. That’s the problem.

His stomach growling cuts through the brain fog. That’s something he can do, at least.

Plonking himself down on the stool by the counter, he opens the WebMD webpage entitled, “People Foods Cats Can Eat” on his StarkPad. Slide one is a useless introductory paragraph and a promise for nine more slides of information, so he taps the forward arrow. Steve grits his teeth and taps the next button. Then taps it again, and again, and again, reading less of the slides and smashing the button with greater force until he goes too far and is redirected to another page entirely.

He manages to place the tablet on the counter carefully instead of throwing it at the fridge. With suggestions like “meat” and “whole grains”, WebMD is about as knowledgeable in cat care as Steve is. Back before the war, he used to watch Bucky share bits of fish and chicken to the alley cats when they were flush enough to have either in the kitchen. He had even thrown a few strands of spaghetti to some, and Steve had assumed they enjoyed it by the speed with which they had slurped it up.

Luckily, Steve and Bucky had salmon the night before and the leftovers are still there. With the lid off, the smell of fish permeates the room.

Bucky materializes beside him.

“Hungry?” Bucky may be the size of a small doll, but Steve has to assume he still has some version of the serum coursing through his veins. He needs as many calories as possible.

Speaking of which, Steve grabs a heavy-duty protein bar from the cupboard. It’s practically one-half plant-based protein and one-half filler he secretly suspects is sawdust, but Steve can’t always be choosy with the way he fills his stomach.

Bucky chirrups happily before the wets sounds of smacking lips fill the kitchen. His entire head disappears into the glass container as he chases it awkwardly across the granite with a scoring sound. When he’s close to pushing the meal off the counter and following it over the edge, Steve puts a hand out to stop him. The other lands on Bucky’s hunched back.

“Bucky, you’re so soft!” It escapes him in a gleeful rush. His softness is not unlike any other cat he's touched in the past. Underneath long, silky fur there are undeniably fragile bones and muscles. But it is entirely different from all the other touches he and Bucky share. He frowns. Maybe he shouldn't take the same liberties he would with another cat because — because — well, just because. Right? 

He touches Bucky all the time when they’re both human, but being human means having the ability to say "stop it, you're sweaty and gross," or "not tonight, champ". He hovers his hands over his back, feeling umoored. They share so many unconscious touches throughout day, like a slap on the back after the Mets get one over the Yankees. Or a brush of fingers when Bucky passes him a beer from the fridge. Or a headlock while they train, even if sometimes Steve runs hot when Bucky presses into his chest in attempt to escape his hold, and Steve has to cant his hips in a strategically idiotic way to avoid certain parts of his anatomy from slotting with Bucky’s in front of the rest of the Avengers. All Steve can say is thank god for the elastic waistband.

To run his fingers through his fur feels different to those moments, even if he only means to comfort Bucky. He can't explain it any better than that, other than it makes his head want to explode.

“Eck,” Bucky grunts through half-masticated fish before he continues devouring the leftovers. Steve can't tell if that's in protest to his now downy coat or if Bucky can hear the gears grinding in Steve's head and is telling him to smarten up. He opts to remove his hand anyhow. He doesn’t realize just how gigantic his fingers are until they rest on a tiny, hollow-boned kitten. He uses his enormous hand to shove the entire protein bar into his mouth instead.

“We gotta figure out a better system than this,” he says through the paste of chewed protein bar once he realizes he’ll have to hold the container for a while. Bucky isn't finished half of the leftovers yet.

His tablet distracts him from his boredom, lighting up with a message. Natasha’s letting him know she’s on her way over, so he taps out a message about the unlocked door and watches Bucky until she arrives.

At the sound of the door clicking open, Bucky stops licking the sides of the container. Tongue frozen against the glass, he watches her cautiously over the rim as she walks into the kitchen.

“Hi, boys,” she says, leaning against the counter and eyeing the now empty container and wrapper. “Dinner time already.”

“Yeah, you know—” Steve stops because Natasha is making kissy noises, extending her hand towards Bucky who plonks down on his haunches. He regards her with a look of disdain shelved on a severe brow that is pure Bucky, albeit furry and covered in twitching whiskers. It has an uncanny resemblance to several grumpy generations of the Barnes family tree.

“Nat,” Steve groans, drawing a hand down his face, “I don’t think he likes that.”

“And how would you know? He’s a cat.”

“Oh, right! I completely forgot my best friend is a cat. The salmon on his whiskers should have tipped me off, but he’s always been a slob.” 

Bucky hisses.

“I guess the whole tail thing just slipped my mind,” Steve continues, undeterred. He knows he’s snapping at her, but he can’t help it. It’s been a trying few hours. It's hard not to think about Bucky would do if he was bipedal at the moment. If Steve tried to get his attention that way while Bucky was human, he’d laugh, but if it were anyone else, there’d be hell to pay. Hell, if someone said hello to Steve like that now, his blood pressure would go through the fucking roof, but now that Bucky has a tail it’s an appropriate form of communication? Steve has to remind himself it isn't the same thing, for Natasha's sake. Kissy noises that sound like someone sucking on a constipated straw thick with the dregs of a milkshake isn’t doing wonders for his patience.

He knows this, intellectually, but it doesn’t stop his guts from squirming. 

“Sure, he’s Bucky, but he’s also a cat. How much magic does it take to squish his big human brain into that tiny whiny little skull?” Steve cringes when she says the last part in a baby voice.

She looks back up to Steve, her normal voice sounding oddly flat when she says, “Bucky or not, he’s working with a brain the size of a walnut. I suspect instinct will override logic at this point.”

Steve feels his frown deepen in a way that promises permanent wrinkles. That image definitely makes everything worse, and it’s not just because he’s sensitive when it comes to Bucky’s brain.

Natasha’s eyes soften in apology. She knows more than anyone else what was done to Bucky’s brain, but that doesn’t mean she won’t milk this opportunity dry. It’s rare that she can cuddle with a cute cat and tease Steve at the same time.

She wiggles her fingers towards Bucky, who drags his tongue over his paw aggressively before he swipes it through his whiskers. He’d been busy while they talked, getting all but the smell of salmon off his muzzle.

He stops and zeros in on her fingers, paw hanging in the air like one of those Japanese luck cats, and Steve thinks, this is it. This is the moment Bucky’s walnut-sized brain will snap under the pressure of the trauma of becoming a pint-sized furball. He remembers when some of Bucky’s strays got territorial and managed to draw deep red lines in Steve’s little twig arms when he got too close. They’re just a few extended claws away from feline fury and the need for stitches.

Rather than launching an offence, Bucky pushes to his feet in a slow, graceful movement — a liquid rippling from paw to curved tail that ends in a shivering stretch. Steve, still holding his breath, watches as Bucky pads over slowly.

When he’s within paw-batting distance, he simply sniffs at her middle finger. His nostrils open and close as delicately as a pair of pink butterfly wings flapping idly. Then he's smashing his face against her palm, smearing his mouth up her forearm and wriggling his head up and down her arm. A deep purr fills the air.

Pleased, Natasha scratches at the base of his tail with her other hand while holding her arm up for whatever Bucky’s doing. It looks like Bucky’s having a fit, stuck between wanting to continue bunting against her arm and digging his paws in against the counter so he can shove his butt up into her fingers. After a moment, the purr reaches an agitated pitch that sounds an awful lot like the broken compressor in Clint’s fridge.

Natasha glances up quickly, smug victory glinting in her eyes. “Who’s my widdle Winter Soldier?” she coos.

Bucky wraps his forepaw around her arm and clamps his mouth around her elbow in response. Natasha jumps but the movement does nothing to loosen Bucky’s grip. It’s just a love bite, his teeth just denting her skin despite being sharp. Judging by the slow swish of his tail and half-lidded eyes, he has no intention of letting go any time soon.

“I’ve always been a cat person,” she says, wryly.

“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, “I think she gets it Bucky.”

The cat promptly unhinges his jaw and flops down into an uncontrolled stretch, melting into a puddle of fuzz. His tail beats twice before twitching and lying still — a fluffy exclamation point of lethargy.

“Well, I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” Natasha says as she heads to the door. “But let me know if you need anything like. A cat sitter, for example. Cat nip. Kitty litter,” she says through the gap in the door right before it clicks shut. 

Steve looks down at Bucky, who cracks an eye back at Steve.

“Mrrp.”

“Yeah,” Steve says without knowing what he’s agreeing to.

They share a companionable silence as Steve considers what Natasha had said.

"Maybe. She's right. About the. Kitty litter?" He says, slowly, like each word has to be dragged out of his throat separately. It isn't something he wants to think about necessarily. But when your best guy turns into a cat, you have to deal with something you wouldn't normally consider. Like if Bucky would like cat treats as much as the cats do in those commercials. 

When Bucky growls deep in his throat, Steve decides it's best to shelve that topic for another time. They can go to the pet store later. He reaches out and scratches Bucky’s head unconsciously. It isn't until he's paying close attention to the silk tufts of hair where his pointy ears join his small head that he realizes what he's done. Before he can move away, Bucky trills neutrally before pressing his face into Steve’s palm.

Steve doesn't move. He takes that small noise as permission to — at least for now — take some solace in the contact. 

“A fuzzy little head,” Steve doesn't quite whisper to himself, then grimaces as he catches himself falling into the saccharine voice he reserves for any fluffy animal under 90 pounds. "I'm sorry Bucky. I can’t help myself. It's surprisingly hard not to talk to you like a cat. You make a cute cat.” 

Bucky huffs but doesn't move otherwise. 

“So this is. Weird.”

Bucky's tail whumps against the counter once.

“Y’wanna go down to the labs?”

~*~

The doors to the labs slide open with a quiet whisper on their approach. Steve takes his time, while Bucky trots ahead and disappears under one of the tables Tony and Bruce are huddled over. They look up expectantly before Tony makes a face.

“Ooo, judging by that face Natasha told you about her walnut theory, didn't she?”

“What? No,” Steve shakes his head, “Well, yes, she did. But that’s not why we’re here. We’re wondering how it’s going.”

“Well, after a little bit of Googling we've determined he's a Ragdoll, eight to twelve months. So not quite kitten material, but I'm still saving my files under Operation: Buckitty.”

A responding hiss comes from somewhere under the table as Bucky takes a sharp clawed swipe at his ankle. Tony bangs his knee against the bottom of the table with a bitten off curse.

“Alright, somebody’s sensitive. Noted. No tease-y, no swipe-y,” Tony escapes from his chair, “Important question: are we working with the original Bucky recipe or can we expect Little Bucky Foo Foo to scoop up all the field mice? Do you need me to order a litter box?"

Bucky hisses underneath the table again as five sharp claws catch on the leather of Tony's shoe. 

"I think he's still himself," Steve interprets for him, still wary of the topic.

Tony nods. "Next important question: if you were transmogrified into a cat, what cat species would you be? I’d be a Bengal. Brucey here would be a Munchkin — on account of how short he is.”

“Tony, we’re like the same size,” Bruce says but there’s no heat to his words. He barely looks down at Tony’s feet. He knows better than to mention how the lifts in his shoes add a couple of inches. They all know better than to mention them.

“I’m thinking you’d be an orange tabby. You like to cuddle, you talk an awful lot, and see? See that frown?” Tony points as the furrowing between Steve’s brows deepens when he stares nonplussed, “Classic “M” markings."

“He also likes lasagna,” Bruce says. When Steve just looks confused, he elaborates, “like Garfield? It was a comic strip about a cat who ate lasagna. And who hated Mondays.”

Steve makes a mental note to add it to The List. Can cats eat lasagna? He doesn't know about this Garfield, but Bucky would probably enjoy eating lasagna instead of cold fish for dinner. 

“Oh, Bruce, you’re onto something there," Tony laughs. "You finished that whole pan to himself the last time we all got together for Italian.”

“So,” Steve says, “what I’m gathering here is you’ve achieved nothing.”

Bucky jumps onto the table with a disappointed trill and stands on some folders. Bruce startles and manages to tear the top of his notepad only slightly.

“Not exactly. JARVIS is cataloguing those servers.”

“And?”

“Give him some time. There were about 200,000 cabinets in that basement, and each one of them contains roughly 40 servers. And each one of those holds about 10 terabytes. All together, we’re in the exabytes, so you do the math. Actually, don’t. Let me put it into terms you can understand. You could fit every season of Antiques Roadshow eight and a half times in one cabinet alone.”

“We did the math,” Bruce nods.

“So as much as I appreciate your faith in JARVIS, he needs time.”

"Thank you, sir." JARVIS says demurely from Tony's ubiquitous sound system.

Bucky’s ears slick back flush against his head. He blinks bright, big eyes that look like they're filling up under the harsh overhead lighting. It's heart-wrenching.

“But!" Tony nearly shouts as if the volume of his voice is forceful enough to push the tears back into Bucky's tear ducts, "We were just going to send DUM-E over to touch one of the cabinets we brought back with us. Wanna watch?”

Which is how they find themselves standing behind protective glass, DUM-E and the cabinet on the other side. Each of them is wearing protective goggles, including Bucky. He’s wearing a miniature set of goggles accommodating his pointy ears that Steve chooses not to ask why Tony has in his lab. Steve bundles Bucky close to his chest so he can see better. 

"Alright, commencing BRC: Unplugged. DUM-E, go take out that wire." 

They watch DUM-E roll over to on of the cabinets with its singular arm stretched out, pincher poised to grasp one of the cords. The claw slowly closes over the plug in a secure grip. 

A large bang rings out at the same time the lab explodes in a bright flash of sparks that shrouds the cabinet and DUM-E. They blink behind goggles as what looks like a thousand fire flies flicker in and out of existence in a phosphorescent haze. Bucky’s ears swivel furiously at the sound of static. The glittering lights slowly die out while effervescent fog clears. It reveals DUM-E is missing.

At the foot of the cabinet is a silver-plated cat on two sets of conveyor belts. It has a long, segmented metal tail towering over its boxy body, and it looks an awful lot like DUM-E’s arm. They watch as the robotic cat glides straight into the cabinet with a clunk.

“So, that's strange,” Tony admits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I said this was going to be done in 3 parts. But who am I to follow along with my own outline? (WHAT OUTLINE? someone screams from the back) Actually, there's some truth to this. I can't find my notes, so I guess that means I deleted my outline. I'm flying by the seat of our pants! Happy weekend. Here's some cat!Bucky.

Bucky goes from a heavy, warm weight against his chest to a high-octane armful of boney cat in a nano-second. Steve wrestles with him unconsciously, not because he wants to keep this unwieldy bundle of rage against his chest. In fact, he would love to let him go. He’s just not putting Bucky down now. Immediately. Instantly. Which is tantamount to betrayal in the feline code of honour, so Bucky has taken to pushing and wriggling against the solid rebar of Steve’s arms. A deep warble vibrates against Steve’s chest as Bucky locates a strategic weak point in his hold, squeezing his head between a sliver of space between Steve’s elbows.

“Shit!” Steve can’t help the shrill whine as several claws dig into the soft underbelly of his forearms.

It doesn't hurt. It really doesn't. Steve knows hurt. A punctured lung after you get drop-kicked into a coarse Redwood trunk hurts. Holding your broken jaw shut while you wait for it to heal hurts. Waking up from a long nap on ice that you thought was your final blink out of existent only to find out you're back 70 years in the future and all of your friends are dead hurts. Perhaps it hurts the worst. A cat scratch is nothing in comparison to his long list of post-mission injuries and existential trauma. But a broken bone or two are a small and expected price of keeping the world safe.

In the long run, five claws scoring into his skin doesn’t warrant more than a tightening of the mouth. It's nothing like the rolling eyes and teeth-gnashing face that represents unbearable pain on Bruce’s pain charts. The same red-faced contortion Bucky makes to make Steve laugh whenever they're in Bruce's labs together. But it is unnerving and bewildering when those claws belong to your best friend, which is why Steve can’t be held responsible for what he does next.

Bucky goes airborne. And because he’s a 12-pound cat and not a 200-pound supersoldier, he flies across the room, skull hurtling towards the tiles in a worrying blur.

Steve winces, bracing himself for the inevitable crunchy impact when Bucky blinks resolutely and twists his back legs towards the ground. His front paws and head follow suit in a serpentine twist just in time for him to land perfectly on four legs. Bucky scrambles comically against the shiny floor as soon as he touches down. He’s off in a whir.

“Can you please calm down?” Tony asks the speeding bullet of fur that hurries past his legs and under the table.

Bucky disappears around a shelving unit. A tool clatters to the floor one side of the room followed by what sounds like a beaker shattering on the opposite end of the lab.

Tony winces and turns to Steve. “Can you get him to calm down?”

Steve pushes his goggles up into his hair. All of this is an awful lot for Steve to process, so he can’t even begin to understand how Bucky is managing it. He thinks Bucky has every right to freak out.

“Bucky, I’m sorry I threw you.” He is. It was purely a reflex, and he says as much. “I didn’t mean it.”

Another clang rings out as something flat and circular rotates before it flattens to the floor. It sounds suspiciously like a hubcap circling on its outer rim, faster and faster until it shutters to a stop. The silence that follows is ominous.

“Come back, Buck. It was just a. Just a little firecracker,” he says. Steve actually has no idea what it is, but if he were to place bets, he wouldn't say it's a normal function of this particular technology.

Tony scoffs beside him. "Keep it in your tights, Captain America. The 4th of July isn't for another year." Then winces at another crash. “There’s stuff back there that’s worth more than your combined back pays, Barnes!"

Tony looks down on DUM-E.

“What did they do to you?” He whispers plaintively.

DUM-E bleats sadly as Tony pets him awkwardly. DUM-E's tail rotates and folds in on itself. It's a surprisingly feline gesture for the machine.

“Now it's personal.”

“Now?” Steve asks, incredulous. He understands Tony and Bucky aren't on the best of terms, but they're still team members. Steve thought that ought to count for something, considering how often both of them have saved each other's hides — whether by an aptly timed repulsor beam or a pulverizing left hook. Steve would like to think Bucky would care more about Tony than a robot butler if he had one, but now that he's thought about it for about two second he knows how wrong he is. Bucky would dote on any robot just like he did his sisters.

Steve follows the path left by the noises of calamity and finds Bucky wedged in a dark corner and panting. His eyes are dark, the pupils dilated so large they've eaten into any blue. His little mouth is open wide, a pink triangle with the tips of two white fangs showing.

The sight hits Steve in the solar plexus as powerfully as a punch.

“Oh, Bucky. C’mere.”

Bucky doesn't move from his corner despite looking like he's ready to bolt and allows Steve collect him. Steve loops his hands around his front legs and pulls him up, expecting Bucky to curl his body up into his arm, but Bucky does nothing of the sort. Instead, he unfurls like a sad, hairy accordion, stomach stretched long and legs hanging limply towards the floor. He accepts his fate as a subject of gravity with solemnity and stillness. He doesn't even twitch a single whisker as Steve tip toes over the mess Bucky created and walks back to the others.

Bruce and Tony, with DUM-E at his side, are looking at the cabinet. It looks the same as before the experiment. The only difference is now the cord DUM-E pulled is shimmering.

“The other cabinet did the same thing back at the BRC,” Steve nods at the cord in question. He won't touch it this time.

“It’s a by-product of some kind of transformation, obviously, but how?” Bruce asks as he turns to Steve, “I haven't seen anything like this before.”

Bucky lets loose a deeply upset mroew.

"Sorry, Bucky," Bruce says. He desperately wants to smooth a hand over the furry dome of his head, but Bucky's dark glare as a cat is as formidable as a human. Bruce can understand the need for personal space better than anyone else in this room. Probably on the planet. So he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"JARVIS," Tony calls, "lay it one me. I want to know everything about what just happened."

"Of course, sir. But I'm afraid I don't have much to report. The blast lasted 2.9 seconds. The air surrounding DUM-E increased by 7.38 degrees Centigrade, and I detected a 0.5 grams each of calcium chloride, barium oxide, and sodium nitrate."

Bruce scrunches up his face. "Metal salts?"

"Indeed, particularly those most commonly used in firework displays."

"That can't be right. No," Tony pleads, "Steve cannot have been right about firecrackers."

Steve huffs, half vindicated. But Tony’s insufferable need to be the smartest person in the room makes him rolls his eyes. He can be right about technology sometimes. He taught Bucky how to record his show about housewives on the TV. He collects Bucky’s floating back legs and squeezes him to his chest.

"Where did it come from?" Bruce asks, as he peers at the cabinet. There doesn't appear to be any vents surrounding the plug. In fact, other than the remaining sparkles, it doesn't look any different from before.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Banner. My sensors, although more precise, are in many ways as limited as your own in this particular case. I can't detect a combustion delivery system. "

"What’s the status of that data?" Tony asks.

"At 29.4 percent, I've yet to find anything that could explain this."

"I want to see it again," Tony says, as he makes a complicated hand gesture. The space in front of them lights up in a blue recording of the lab seconds before it all happened. Tony taps the air and it plays back. It looks less spectacular in the playback. In fact, it's a little underwhelming fizzle and a cloud of smoke that reveals DUM-E like a disappointing magic trick. The tiny pop of the explosion still makes Bucky startle. Steve hefts Bucky up to his chest and cradles him carefully. He can feel Bucky's heart thundering away as he shivers in fear.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't get it." Tony looks up at the floating screen, stricken. He flicks his wrist, and the video rewinds back to the beginning.

Steve squishes Bucky even closer. He doesn't need to see this again, and neither does Steve. As much as he wants to help, he doesn't even know where to start.

"I think we'll leave you two to work," Steve says.

Tony and Bruce don't look up when he slips through the lab doors.

~*~

They make a strategic retreat to their apartment where Bucky runs off the moment he puts him down. Steve lets him go and drops into a dining chair. He peers at his shirt and sees it's covered in hair. He brushes at the fabric but only manages to thread Bucky's fur deeper into its fibres. He gives up and slumps over the table, cradling his face in his hands. The reality of their situation is starting to reveal itself, but it's dark hiding behind his palms. There, it's easy to pretend Bucky is sprawled out on the couch reading a sci-fi novel and not hiding in the three inches of space underneath it.

Steve’s still sitting at the dining table when Natasha lets herself into their apartment for a second time. He's pretty sure she texted him but checking would involve finding his phone.

"I knew it was going to happen, but I didn't think it would be this quick."

“Muh?” Steve extricates his face from his hands.

"You two, moping likes it's the Great Depression all over again. It's sadder than Soviet Russia in here."

Natasha spots Bucky easily, two eyes gleaming in the shadows. She folds herself into a seat on the carpet.

“Yasha, come say hello.”

To Steve’s surprise, Bucky slinks out from his hiding spot and puts to paws on Natasha’s legs.

Natasha freezes when she pats his back. “Why are you wet?”

Bucky’s tail curls around his body as he ducks his head. When he looks up, his eyes are massive and shiny. He makes a pitiful creature. Steve feels like he's his abusive owner, and Bucky's trying to convince Natasha to rescue him. It's pathetic enough that Steve almost believes, even though he knows exactly why Bucky's wet.

“Steve, why is Bucky wet?”

“There was,” Steve pauses to stop himself from laughing. Bucky didn't appreciate it the first time. "An incident.”

There was a brief moment when he had left his spot at the table to throw some water on his face. He hadn't know Bucky had also chosen that moment to balance on the toilet seat. Bucky’s back paws scrambled against the plastic for the split second he caught sight of Steve, but it was no use. He fell directly into the bowl, howling. He hissed the entire time as he levered himself out and took off the moment he touched tile. He’s been under the couch since.

“Alright. Get up you sad sacks.” Natasha wipes her hand against her jeans with a grimace. It’s for show; she’s had a lot worse things on her hands than the water of a toilet bowl. “It’s time to go shopping.”

“You. Me. Bucky. We’re going to the pet store.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Nat.”

“Sure, it is.”

Steve sighs. “It’s been a long day. Can we just—”

“What, sit here and mope? No.” She turns to Bucky. “Yasha, there will be treats.”

Bucky leaps into her arms as she stands and curls his paws over her left forearm. They both look at him, waiting.

“Two against one now, Steve. Time to go.”

Libraries across this country fill their shelves with autobiographies and historical nonfiction on Steve and what he accomplished with the Howling Commandos. Steve know most of them highlight his — or Captain America's — refusal to back down from any challenge. But today he proves their authors liars. They were right in regards to Nazis and Hydra, but it comes to Bucky and Natasha. Well, It's with a tactician's mind he knows he has no chance here. In mute surrender, he hangs his head and peels himself out of his chair.

There’s a pet store a few blocks over, but Natasha insists they drive. They take one of Tony's sports cars that has doors that opens up instead of to the side like a normal car. Natasha loves it, even if she wouldn't ever admit it. She revs the engine and takes the ramp out of the parking lot at such a speed that Bucky loses his balance and sprawls onto Steve's lap. By the time they merge into traffic, he rights himself, legs pushing into his thigh as he balances against the door, face smushing against the window to watch as the buildings rush by. Steve finds himself staring at Bucky the entire way as he holds his small body steady as Natasha takes each turn. It's fine. It doesn't matter that his hand can circle around his entire, rapidly fluttering rib cage. He's doing Bucky a favour here.

A bell chimes when they push through the doors of the pet store.

“Hi! Welcome to Pet Central!” A young woman in a blue polo shirt says from the counter. Let me know if you nee—.” She looks up from where she’s cellophaned dog bones and goes red. “Oh, shit the Black Widow. And Captain America! You have a cat!”

Natasha smiles, lifting Bucky to introduce him: “His name is Bubsy.”

Bucky makes a strange grinding noise in his throat but doesn't move otherwise. The store clerk looks unfazed.

“Hi, Bubsy! I’m Layla. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you two. I was just surprised.” The words tumble out of her mouth as her blush grows down her neck. “I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

Steve’s about to thank her and reassure it's no trouble before disappearing down one of the aisles when Natasha speaks up.

“Actually, Layla, we need help getting everything Bubsy needs. Do you think you can help us?”

Layla straightens as her eyes go round. She nods her head quickly, “Uh, yeah! Yes, of course. We’ll get you sorted out asap, Bubsy.”

She rounds the corner of the cash desk and puts her hand out for Bucky to sniff. Whatever he smells seems to pass the test, as he lets her scratch the junction where his ear meets his head. His eyes close to slits as he gazes up to her face. She smiles.

“Okay,” Layla nods. A serious look of concentration leaches any blush remaining on her cheeks. “Let’s do this.”

She crosses the store floor and beckons them to follow her. She seems nice. Maybe this isn't going to be too bad.

Steve realizes what a fool he is when he realizes she takes them to the aisle of his nightmares. Bags and bags of cat litter line the shelves on either side of them. He immediately looks to Natasha in alarm, who rolls her eyes before tuning into Layla with the full force of her attention. Layla, for her part, barely bats an eyelash under the considerable pressure. Or at least, that's what Steve assumes as he makes the conscious choice to stop listening before she even starts. He can't spend a single second listening to what he knows is going to be a frank discussion about cat litter brands. The fact that he's in this aisle at all makes him want to evacuate out of his skin. He can't even look at Bucky. The brief moment he does reveals Bucky is watching Layla intently, so Steve doesn't feel like a total asshole for abandoning him. Natasha and Bucky have things covered.

At some point, they seem satisfied and deposit not one but two bags in his arms plus a large litter box. Physically, these items have no weight, so he comfortablly carries them as they move onto the next aisle. And such a pattern is created. They stop. He stands. And they add more to his load. He trails after the two women listlessly, zig-zagging across the stores and collecting a little something from each stop.

He adjusts his grip when a plush snake toy threatens to topple everything.

“Do we really need all this stuff? You know Buc— Uh, Busby may not even appreciate it.”

“Of course he will, Steve,” Natasha coos. Steve can't see her because his towering armful of pet paraphernalia obstructs anything directly in front of him and two inches to either side, but he's pretty sure she’s rubbing noses with Bucky. Because they are both traitors. And spies who commit wholeheartedly to any role, which is Public Persona Natasha and her new adowable kitten. But they're mostly traitors.

“Toys will keep your indoor cat physically and emotionally engaged. If you don’t think you’ll have time to play him, I’d recommend getting an automated cat toy that interacts with him whether you’re there or not.” Layla pauses. “And I guess we should add automatic feeders and watering dispensers, too, so Busby won’t go hungry if you’re ever, you know, saving the world?”

“No, no,” Steve grinds out, feeling chastened even though he's not guilty of neglect. He looks after Bucky fine! Or, at least he will. Jesus, Bucky's not even a cat in reality.

"This is fine.” He agrees meekly.

Everything is fine. Sure.

It's this tenuous grasp on peace and acceptance that follows him to the cash register and all the way home, where Steve finds his way back to his apartment with a pile of cat treats and toys that is entirely too much. Even if Bucky was a real cat, he wouldn’t need this much stuff. And the price! He stares at the receipt he put next to Bucky’s new belongings. The number at the bottom of the receipt, just above where he wrote his knotted signature, would have squared up rent for several months not too long ago. Back before Steve knew about credit cards and aliens and electronics that turns people into cats.

“Remember inflation,” Natasha says besides him. She swipes the receipt and crumples it into a fist. “It’s really not that much.”

Not that much. Not that… He stares at all the shit covering his table and fumes.

Bucky, on the other hand, is pleased as punch. He jumps onto the table and tightrope walks his paws in between the pet store detritus, somehow finding the solid surface of the table without shifting a single toy. He moves with a regal elegance as he appraises his haul. He pauses. His nose flares. Then he darts into the mountain of plush toys, his entire head disappearing for a moment. When he pulls it out with a shake, there's a noxious pink fish in his mouth that Steve doesn’t remember buying, bagging, or unloading. It still has a cardboard sign on it. It says, printed in comic sans, that it's a catnip treat every cat will love. 

Bucky drops the toy on the small space not currently covered in stuff and then rolls on top of it. He slams his paws down over the fish and holds it tightly against the table and starts pressing his face insistently all over it. And licking. The licking sounds as bad as the fish meal from earlier, but this time it’s joined by the scratchy noises of his tongue scraping the toy’s knitted material. The pink fabric stains dark instantly. Steve frowns. The fine hairs along Bucky’ muzzle mat together with spittle, and there’s a shiny puddle under the fish. Bucky’s drooling.

A bright flash makes Steve look up, but it doesn’t bother Bucky. Natasha’s holding her phone with a knowing smirk on her face.


End file.
